A sudden hand touched his shoulder, and Darien jerked away instinctively, reaching for his saber. But he caught a glimpse of silver hair shimmering in the light of the explosions. It was Valeria Sardona, and relief swept over him.
“Are you all right?” she shouted above the din.
He nodded, his hearing still muffled. He drew nearer. “Where’s the general?”
“I don’t know! I lost everyone after that first blast! Gods, you’re bleeding!”
“I’ll be all right,” he said. His voice sounded distant, as though coming from outside his own body. “It’s not deep.”
Valeria pulled him to his feet. His back ached with pain, but it was bearable. The second blast had only jarred him.
A regiment marched past and fired on the wall, hitting only a couple Morgathian marksmen, who tumbled over the side of the towering wall. Screams filled the air, and the surviving Legions retreated from the gates at full speed. The thud of the battering rams ceased.
Darien grabbed a musket from a dead comrade and loaded as fast as he could manage. Valeria did the same. They were about to rage ahead with the next wave of muskets, when they were thrown back to the ground in the worst explosion yet.
The air filled with bodies and parts of bodies.
But they were not the bodies of the Night Legions.
A stone the size of a small hut landed a few yards off. A titanic piece of the wall of Goran’El. The Morphs did it! The wall is breached!
A cry rose up from the Night Legions—“Ooh, rah! Ooh, rah!”—as the walls of Goran’El exploded in all directions, leaving behind a gaping hole the width of a city street. The battle cry turned into a deafening roar. The Morphs took flight, letting all of Morgath know how their rebellion had been undone. Shots fired into the haze to no avail. The Morphs disappeared in the clouds and then descended in glory, soaring over the cheering Legions.
“Ooh, rah! Ooh, rah! Ooh, rah!” they all cried triumphantly.
The Legions stampeded forward. Any memory of the pain in Darien’s back vanished. Adrenaline surged through him as he and Valeria sprinted across the battlefield to the chasm in the wall. Nothing mattered but ending the Morgathian rebellion once and for all.
The onslaught of Shadows broke through like water through a breached dam. They poured through the opening and spread through the streets of Goran’El—a deluge, taking out all who stood in their way.
The first wave of Shadows was shot down, but in the chaos, the Morgathians lost all order to their musket-fire. Carefully coordinated volleys turned into a flurry of desperate shots. Too many fired. Too many were left to reload at once. And the Shadows stormed past.
Darien fired his musket only once, hitting his mark in a soldier’s exposed neck. Then, he pitched it aside and drew his saber from the sheath on his back. The Night Legions wore leathern armor and moved swiftly. It made them vulnerable in the open field, but in close combat, it made them quick and deadly. The Morgathians wore plates of cumbersome forged-steel. It made their men fiercely difficult to kill from a distance, but left them bulky and awkward in close quarters. The Morgathian muskets were fitted with long bayonets, but they were no match for the speed of the overwhelming number of Legion sabers.
Darien parried a bayonet jab and thrust with his blade. He missed, drew back, warded off another jab, and another. How long might they continue this way? The longer his attention was fixed on one soldier, the longer he was exposed to the thousand others swarming around him. But then, Valeria appeared behind the Morgathian. Her saber sliced open the soldier’s exposed neck in a spray of blood and sinew.
Her face was cold and set as she pulled away. Darien nodded his thanks for coming to his aid yet again.
Without a word needed, Darien and Valeria became one vicious mechanism. Four arms, four legs, and two flashing blades working in unison, surging forward. One deflected attacks while the other sought the death blow. It was like their minds had synced, anticipating every move of the other seamlessly. Morgathian men fell all around the whirlwind pair, bathing the streets in blood.
Bodies were soon strewn so thick, it was like moving through a felled forest, as the Legion force drove forward. The Morph beasts bounded in the midst of the fray, mauling men to pieces with their massive claws. Taking Goran’El became suddenly easy. Too easy, Darien thought.
The streets were thinning of Morgathian men. Darien and Valeria and their comrades rushed into an open market square located deep within the city, when a company of spears strode to meet them. The spearmen each stood nearly seven feet tall, and one at the front quickly fixed on Darien and Valeria. The spearman’s lance was ten feet long. Darien had never seen a man move so lithely with such an unwieldy weapon. They lunged into their attack, but neither Darien nor Valeria could get close enough to land a blow. The man whipped the lance through the air like a sea dragon snatching its prey. It was all they could do to ward off the violent thrusts.
As he parried, Darien’s sword was wrenched from his grasp, and he fell to his knees. Valeria blocked the spearman’s deathblow, but the force knocked her back. She stumbled over a corpse in the square, leaving Darien exposed and without his weapon. The spearman stepped forward, grinning. He shifted his lance in his hands, then thrust at Darien’s lightly armored chest—
A shot rang through the street—
The lance fell short and dropped to the ground—
The spearman’s neck splayed open at the impact of the rocketed ball of lead, and he collapsed.
“Ooh, rah!”
Darien glanced back. Jujen was grinning madly from a Morgathian wall, pumping his fist. A host of Legion sharpshooters had taken a central Morgathian tower within the city. While Jujen reloaded, the others fired, picking off more spearmen. They were left with no choice but to flee the square. As the Morgathian spearmen retreated, the Legions fired another volley, and a dozen more spears fell. Darien had never been so relieved to hear Jujen cry out in maniacal victory.
“Ooh, rah!” Darien shouted, pumping his fist at his comrade. Valeria and Darien scrambled to their feet and left the open square behind. The streets were soon emptied, and the Legions proceeded cautiously, wary of an ambush. But it never came.
The Morgathians had fled for the innermost keep of Goran’El—their last line of defense before King Hollsted’s central palace and the final victory.
Battering rams were brought forward, but the star rock gates would never be breached with wooden rams. The obsidian stone was several feet thick. The central palace was not built for offense. It was built to be impenetrable. No shots rained down on the Legions, but they could not fire any themselves. Of course, the end was inevitable. The Morgathians were routed and weak. They might survive a few days, maybe even a month under siege, but there was no doubt the rebellion was crushed. If Hollsted was wise, he would surrender and spare the women and children the agony of starvation.
The Legions swarmed around the thick palace gates. The rams ceased their onslaught as a cry rose up from the rear. Jujen and the company of sharpshooters came forward, rolling three of the Morgathian fire cannons to face the gate. The Legions cried, “Ooh, rah! Ooh, rah!” like never before.
The rebels’ secret weapon became their downfall. The star rock did not give at once, but after several volleys, the gates began to crumble. The Legions braced for attack, but there were no Morgathian forces beyond the gate. They had retreated deep into the inner fortress.
General Thrain stepped from the masses and approached the devastated gate. Darien was filled with relief. He had not seen his commander since the rocket that tore apart their regiment outside the city.
“Hollsted!” Thrain shouted to the towers of the palace. “You are undone! There need be no more bloodshed! End this civil war, and save the people who yet live!”
There was no answer from the tower.
The storm had ceased, Darien noticed for the first time. The sky was beginning to turn grey with the coming morning. Commander Zamel rode forward on his eb
ony courser. He spun at the gate and faced his Legions.
“You have fought valiantly, Shadows! You have crushed the rebellion!”
“Ooh, rah! Ooh, rah!” they roared.
“Now we finish this civil war once and for all! Kill anyone who stands in your way, until Hollsted comes groveling before me! May Morgath never forget the day they rejected our chancellor’s mercy!”
There was sudden movement in the palace tower. One after another, thick sacks came hurtling from the precipice.
Firebombs!
Valeria grabbed Darien and pulled him to the ground along with her. The explosions decimated the Legions. They had all gathered thick in one place, and the bombs ripped through them like they were made of lace. Limbs and blood filled the air. Commander Zamel was launched from his mount when its legs were blown out from beneath it. The earth shook with blast after blast. Seven in all.
There was a palpable silence as the smoke settled. The surviving Shadows did not dare move, bracing themselves for another explosion. But it did not come.
General Thrain was the first to stand. He helped Zamel out from under his dead horse. Darien helped Valeria to her feet, grateful they had survived, knowing many of their comrades had shielded them with their own lives. The other Shadows stood in the settling smoke and waited for the command.
“Kill them all!” Zamel cried, raising his saber high. “Leave none alive!” And the Legions stormed through the gaping palace gates to end the Morgathian rebellion. Once and for all.
16
Beyond the gates, it was a slaughter. Hollsted’s inner palace was buffered with Morgathian women and children, packed tightly in the narrow, pillared lanes. The rebels launched their last desperate firebombs, which killed Shadows and civilians alike, and then, the Legions broke down doors and spread through every room, slashing through any Morgathian who dared stand in their way.
Darien had lost sight of Ol’ Merri long before the walls were breached. From the beginning of their march, he had wondered how she would fare in the heat of battle, with her piety and hope. But when the first Morgathian had shot at her, during the sneak attack on Ravencrest, Merri fired back at her kinsman without hesitance, and finished him off with a slash of her saber. Darien had been proud of her. Despite his efforts to distance himself from any suspicious activity, he was still fond of Merri. He hoped she was still alive somewhere in the madness.
The halls of Goran’El filled with the shrieks of old and young, helpless and strong alike. The remaining Morgathian soldiers fired desperate shots at the heartless invaders before being cut down. Civilians ran for their lives, making for the innermost depths of the palace. But there were few places to hide and too many vying for them. The marble floors of the palace were rendered invisible beneath the thick layer of bodies.
Darien and Valeria stuck close together, scouring every corridor for King Hollsted. Only his capture would end the slaughter of his blind followers. Darien kicked open a bedroom door and shut it quickly behind them.
Within, Ol’ Merri faced off with a young boy, maybe twelve, wearing fine robes and wielding a musket far too large for him. Merri’s saber was raised, but she spoke softly to the boy. “Please,” she said. “Lower your weapon.”
The boy waved the musket dangerously. “I-I’ll kill you!” the boy cried, his voice croaking. “Y-you Oshan bastards! I’ll take as many of you down with me as I can. I-I am my father’s son, a servant of Nafta, god of the Flame, and I will not go quietly!” Darien noted the iron crown upon his head.
“Kill him!” hissed Valeria.
Merri was close enough she could easily knock the musket away with her saber. It waved wildly between Merri and the new intruders. The moment Darien and Valeria arrived had been her opportunity—while the boy was distracted—but Merri held back. Darien knew she could not stomach the slaughter of a child. Not even one willing to take her life. Not even Hollsted’s own son. Darien’s hand went to his belt.
“N-no!” the prince cried. His musket fixed more steadily on Merri’s head. His finger pressed the trigger.
With near-invisible speed, Darien snatched the throwing blade at his belt and let it fly—
The musket fired—
The blade lodged in the boy’s throat in a spray of blood—
Bits of stone crumbled from the wall at the impact of the boy’s shot—
He had missed Merri. The prince collapsed, blood gurgling between fingers clasped at his slender neck. Darien rushed forward, removed the blade, and returned it to his belt. Merri was shaking. She could not take her eyes off the dying prince. Darien left her, without a word, and turned to Valeria.
The girl’s face was expressionless. Fear struck him as she watched him cross the room. He should not have been the one to kill the boy. The old fear of being watched, of doing something treasonous, returned like a winter plague. He had covered for Merri, and now Valeria knew it without doubt.
“Leave none alive,” she said carefully, eyeing Merri.
“And none live,” he said firmly.
Valeria paused, considering the situation, but then nodded and said, “Then we should move on.”
They returned to the halls and cleared the next room. Darien took no pleasure in the slaughter of women and children, but there was no way around it. Hollsted had even left his own son to face the soldiers while he retreated deeper within the palace. It was said that the Morgathian god, Nafta, left the world of men dying in his own flames as he destroyed his enemies, and it was Nafta’s last words that Hollsted had taught his followers to live by: Do not go quietly.
The Morgathians had been fools to serve such a heathen ruler. Darien performed his duty and slew any man, woman, or child he encountered in the palace.
Hollsted had barricaded himself in his innermost court with his elders and generals. It was not until the Legions brought the battering rams to the door that Hollsted finally surrendered. The Rebel King opened the door himself and held out his saber, still bearing the insignia of two dark interweaving wisps of shadow. The traitor still carried the saber issued him by the Night Legions so many years before. General Thrain stepped forward to meet his former comrade.
Hollsted had pale, freckled skin and fiery red hair, a sign of special blessing from Nafta. To the end, Hollsted wore his iron crown of flames. Looking upon the river of dead bodies that lined his halls, Hollsted bore no expression, no remorse, no sorrow. His face was empty as he spoke. “I surrender.”
Thrain grabbed Hollsted’s saber and threw it to the ground in anger. “You son of a whore! You have destroyed these people!”
Hollsted laughed and stepped closer. “After all our years of fighting, I would think you’d realize it by now. I knew this rebellion was doomed the day my troop defected from the Legions. I knew, one day, I would hand you my sword, and you would lead me back to the chancellor in chains. So go on, comrade, take me to him.” Hollsted held out his hands arrogantly.
Thrain retrieved a pair of shackles from the ranks and stepped forward.
Hollsted’s next movement was so quick the general had no time to react. Thrain reached for Hollsted’s hands, but at the same moment, from his robes, Hollsted produced a dagger, and he thrust it into Thrain’s side. The general gasped as the blade plunged in deep, and Hollsted pulled him close.
“We never fought to win. We fought to take as many gods-damned Shadows down with us as we could!” Hollsted pulled the blade out viciously, then sliced at Thrain’s neck. The general fell to the floor of the throne room, blood pouring into the cracks between the marble tiles. Hollsted started laughing.
Darien could not bear that this despicable traitor would survive—because of some ridiculous custom of warfare—laughing, while the general bled out before him. It was unfathomable that kings should live, after letting so many die on their behalf.
Without thinking, Darien leapt from the ranks, drawing his saber, and attacked the Rebel King. Hollsted was not prepared for the attack. He stumbled backwards and fell as he de
flected Darien’s first blow with his dagger. One of his elders slid him a saber, just in time to deflect Darien’s next blow. Hollsted scrambled to his feet and faced off. The king was a better swordsman than Darien expected. Hollsted did not see much battle, preferring the safety of halls and battle camps, it was said. It had been many years since Hollsted had trained in the Shadow Camps, but it was clear he had not forgotten his training.
Darien had never fought so hard in all his life. He was filled with bitter rage. Every blow was stronger than the last, but Hollsted deflected them all. Then, the king delivered blows of his own, and Darien was on the defense. Hollsted was a madman, each blow pounding like a shipwright’s hammer. He twisted his blade with a flourish, and Darien’s saber was out of his hand. Darien fell to the ground, fearing what was about to come. But he did not regret his choice. It would be an honorable death. A Shadow’s death.
Hollsted laughed. “Now I get to kill one more Shadow before I meet the chancellor.”
Hollsted leapt forward, his blade aiming for Darien’s neck.
A shot rang out in the hall—
A bullet ripped through the king’s cheek and out the other side of his face—
His saber clattered to the throne room floor, and Hollsted fell back. Darien turned to see who had fired the shot, relief swelling within him.
Valeria Sardona stood apart from the Legions, smoke pouring from her musket, which was still aimed at the king’s head.
Hollsted spluttered on the ground, blood bubbling from his frayed mouth, but Darien could still make out his last words. “Do not go quietly.”
The Rebel King’s elders and generals rushed forward to make their last stand, to take as many Shadows down with them as they could.
Just like their god.
17
When all was told, the Battle of Morgath—Hollsted’s Last Stand, the Battle of Fire and Fury, the Great Rebel Slaughter—lasted three and a half days, leaving six thousand Morgathian soldiers, women, and children slain, along with five thousand Shadows, largely found in the Goran Fields outside the fortress. No Morgathian soldiers surrendered. All went down in a bloody fight until their last breath. Though many were slain, the old men, women, and children who survived were given the option to swear allegiance to the chancellor, so long as they forsook their pagan god. Most obliged. The survivors would see the chancellor as a kind master in contrast to Hollsted. They would become loyal subjects, all notions of rebellion quenched. It was a mercy they did not deserve, but the chancellor was wise and gracious. Darien could only hope his ruler would be so gracious when he and Valeria arrived back at the White Citadel.
The Shadow Watch Page 15